


Drabblewatch (NonReadershots)

by DarthSuki



Series: Drabblewatch [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Age Play, Character Development, Daddy Kink, Dragon!Hanzo, F/F, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Possessive Behavior, Wing Grooming, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-11 02:25:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7872394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthSuki/pseuds/DarthSuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of non-readershot Overwatch ficlets either written of my own prerogative or requested through my tumblr (darthsuki).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Heaven (McCree/Hanzo)

McCree always was a man of simple virtues. He was the kind of guy who personally believed that heaven was different for everyone. Whatever happy, warm place they liked best–that was heaven to them. Where they felt at ease in the world and wanted to be nowhere else, now that was heaven.

And for him, heaven was in his bedroom, laying back on a half-organized mess of pillows and wadded up blankets, a cigar between his lips and his eyes looking down on the most beautiful sight he’d ever have the privilege to see.

Hanzo’s mouth was made for sucking dick; this was a true fact that McCree made sure to mention time and time again, no matter if his lover’s response was a swat to the face or a firm, deadly glare.

But damn, did the archer look like a debauched little angel like that, settled between his legs and his hair a loose mess of raven strands tinged with the slightest of too-early gray.

“You look so good like this,” McCree growls, fingers intertwined with that silky hair–how the fuck Hanzo was able to get his hair so cared for and soft, the cowboy would never know. “–With your lips stretched around my dick like that. God, fuck darlin’, wish you could see how sexy you are right now.”

Hanzo’s cheeks tinge a soft pink, more than what was already there, and his eyes are hardly able to glare up at McCree when he’s already too busy trying to rut into the bed, get some sensation on his untouched cock.

They usually stay like that for a time, for McCree to fully enjoy the sight before leaving Hanzo’s face filthy and worthy of a too-expensive porn magazine. Hanzo of course, too needy to have a cock in his mouth, would come from that alone, pulling back that last moment to make sure McCree’s seed would mark him before cumming all over the bed himself.

Hanzo loved sucking dick a bit too much sometimes, but Jesse will never complain about it.


	2. Treat (Reaper/McCree)

Even when Overwatch fell and resurged, even when McCree was no longer Reaper’s student, but his equal, the self-proclaimed cowboy still found himself wanting to impress the other. He’d show off during practice matches, talk about all of his best runs, even go out of his way to be one of the first to volunteer for anything Reaper asked for.

Suffice to say, eventually, his crush started to notice. Painfully so. McCree’s attempt at seduction was about as solid as it was when he was 19, consisting of bad pick-up lines and the occasional info drop about how big his dick in atrocious metaphors to his pistol.

Eventually, Reaper had just about enough of the ass-kissing and tip-toeing around. If the cowboy wanted his dick, he’d get it, and he’d get it hard.

—

It’s after a mission that the two of them are alone. McCree is cleaning off his gun, making sure there isn’t a hint of black powder clinging to the otherwise pristine steel frame. Reaper is hovering, mostly, though it hardly seems like his ex-student is even aware of it, his eyes glued to the gun and Reaper’s to McCree’s face from the other side of the locker room.

But hell, the kid notices when he’s suddenly got a hand around his throat, pushing him back until his body falls off the bench between the rows of lockers.

“I’m not sure if you honestly think I wouldn’t notice,” Reaper starts in a snarl, already feeling a prickle of pleasure in the way McCree’s hat falls from his head, and those soft, chocolate eyes peer up in instinctual shock. When they fall on Reaper’s mask, they submit near-instantly, lowering themselves to the ground as the shadow of his former teacher falls over him. “–Or maybe you knew I would. Acting like a little schoolgirl to try and get my attention. I thought I taught you better than that, Jesse.”

The attention, the thickness of the air, it all makes McCree’s heart pick up its pace. It pounds in his chest as his dick stirs to attention; he can still feel Reaper’s fingers around his throat, vaugely, though he knew it wasn’t hard enough to leave a mark.

“I figured you’d notice eventually,” The younger said, though his voice was uncharacteristically soft. Submissive. “Jus’ wasn’t sure if you’d do anything about it.”

Reaper took a step closer, his hand snapping forward to grip into the thick mess of Jesse’s hair and hold his head still. Thick tendrils of shadows surrounded them both, like a living smoke.

And then the shadow chuckled.

“You were always one of my best.”

Was that a whisper? Genuine softness? From his former commander, McCree was a little dumbstruck for a few moments, but they were quick to pass as Reaper’s hard grip pushed his head back into the lockers, holding him in place as the other hand started undoing the buckles of his belt to pull out his already hard, throbbing cock.

“I think you deserve a treat.”


	3. The Room (Soldier 76/D.Va)

It was safe in the room. No matter what happened between them, to the team, to the attitude of either party’s day, the room was always a safe haven for both. It was an agreement that neither would break, fraying the delicate trust that both had worked so hard to gain from the other.

For Hana, it was her sense of pride that always made it hard to humble herself, to lower her need to resist and rebel and give into someone else’s desires. For Jack, it was his overwhelming sense of security and near-paranoia. For years he had been a leader, a caretaker of hundreds, and it was all swallowed up in the span of a single day–he was still getting over the nightmares it left within the darkness of sleep.

They found comfort in one another, and in that comfort, they had the room.

It didn’t really have much of a name; it was simply known to both of them as ‘the room’. And it was there that both the young fighter and old soldier found a peaceful comfort in eachother in a way that they knew others would find odd at best, and downright disgusting at worst, but hell if either of them cared.

—

It’s just after a practice match when Jack has Hana in his arms, held close to his chest while her fingertips grip his jacket, moreso to hold than to try pulling it off of him. Their teams had been divvy’d up rather oddly, but they were on the same team so there weren’t many complaints. Hanna took the damage, and Jack backed her up–it worked well more often than not.

The air between them shifted the moment that Jack stepped inside the room, his boot passing the threshold and changing the dynamic in a way both had been eager for since the end of the match.

“Daddy,” The young girl whimpered, stretching her body around in Jack’s arms until she could lean up and press a peck of her lips to his mask. “My leg hurts.” Jack let out a deep, gruff chuckle.

“I know, baby,” He nuzzled her face as gently as he could. he glanced back to make sure the door was closed and locked before carrying Hana towards the bed. “You already told me that when the match ended. Did someone get’cha?”

He laid her down softly over the covers, briefly letting his eyes take in the sight of her form, her curves, the innocence in her eyes. Well, a brand of innocence that she was good at faking, knowing exactly when to bat her eyes or bite her finger in a way that made the old man hate himself something fierce.

Hana was young, but she wasn’t stupid, and she sure as hell wasn’t ignorant. She knew how to push Jack’s buttons and get what she wanted, one way or another.

Regardless, Jack slowly stripped her down, peeling off her thin underarmor to reveal her soft, supple flesh.

“Got out of my mech wrong,” She whimpered, helping him strip her naked, her hair fanning out around her face like a warm halo. “Pinched my leg really bad, daddy.”

God, the way she even said it was beautiful; the way her lips pursed around the sound, the vowel so soft and open.

Jack let out a noise that was half-acting, but half-genuine in sympathy. He’d seen the girl take some serious injuries before, plenty to know that she wasn’t just some uppity little kid–so when she said that she hurt, Jack genuinely respected her pain.

Hands pressed over Hana’s hips as Jack leaned over her naked form, hearing the way that her breath caught. He was so much bigger than her, so much stronger, and Jack knew she loved it. He knew how much she loved it when his fingers left bruises, or how his teeth made marks over her shoulders.

“Do you want daddy to make you feel better?” Jack growled faintly, mask leaving his voice even lower than it was normally. “Show me where it hurts, Hana, let daddy take care of you.”

The girl giggled–which should have been warning enough–and gave him a little, overly-cute smile.

“It hurts down there, daddy. Could you kiss it better?”

It didn’t take all that long for Jack to abandon his mask, dropping it somewhere beside them as his lips started kissing down the young fighter’s stomach. Eventually, he reached her inner thighs, listening to her gentle direction on where to put his lips, despite not seeing any discernible marks on her skin.

“Higher. Higher, daddy.” He moved, she whispered, and he moved again, knowing plenty well exactly where she wanted his mouth to suckle. And he would, eventually, just to make her feel good. To make her feel lavishly loved, and let him unwind and forget his anxiety and turmoil.

It was always safe in the room; their room.


	4. Speed vs Power (Tracer/McCree)

“Now, you go flittin’ about left and right,” McCree goads, feeling the weight of his pistol as he twirls it around his index finger. “You’re fast, but I see your lil game there darlin’.” Though the smug look on his face is enough to make anyone else roll their eyes and give the cowboy no mind, Tracer amuses the half-insult with a hum and a single quirked brow.

“What game might that be now luv? It’s not like you can hold your own as good as I can when you’re outgunned. Speed is what wins the fight.” Lena crosses her arms and hears the timer continue clicking down; she can see the enemy team already setting up their defenses next to the mock payload.

McCree doesn’t seem to take her honest teasing well, because he lets out a huff.

“All y’need is a good gun by your side.” The counter began to sound louder, as it hit the twenty second mark. “Don’t know how you’re even able to get a hit in when you’re moving like some panicking jackrabbit.”

Tracer glances through the door, and notices how Junkrat had left his minebomb just a couple yards outside of the door. She smirks, not making much of a scene about it while she lets the cowboy feel like he won their little argument.

“I guess you’re right, Jesse,” She says, smile bright and hands perched on her hips. She didn’t even reach for her guns, deciding to see the soon-to-be embarrassment to the fullest. “Maybe I should try another door and see if moving a bit slower might help my elimination record.”

Either Jesse doesn’t realize that she had a dozen kills over him on her record or he’s just too caught up in the attention–either way, he almost seems to preen on Tracer’s compliments, cheeks a thin shade of pink as he adjusts his hat out of lack of something to do with his free hand.

“Naw, don’t you worry about that any, I’ll keep ya covered. Just stay behind me Lena and I’ll keep ya plenty safe.” Tracer almost breaks the moment by giggling, but her face is able to hold well enough clueless to the chaos just moments outside the door.

The countdown gets smaller, smaller still.

5…4…3…2..1..

ESCORT THE PAYLOAD.

Tracer watches as McCree takes off out of the door, her face taking on the expression of smug pride in a much similar shade that the cowboy himself had mere moments ago.

It doesn’t take more than a second before the mine goes off. Smoke billows in the spawn zone like a rush of wind, followed quickly by a very limp, but still conscious McCree. He flys back on his back in about the same spot he had been standing, boasting so proudly over his skills of brawn over speed.

“What was that again luv?” Tracer teases, leaning down as McCree groans. Like everything in their practice matches, he’s not injured, but surely a bit jostled after being tossed back on his ass. She lets him catch his thoughts before she giggles, pressing a kiss to the man’s forehead in a chaste moment of intimacy.

He always loved to brag, but at least he never backed down from a challenge.

“I think I’ll keep you covered this time, Jesse,” She giggles, pulling him back up to his feet when he recovered, before dashing out of the door and calling behind her. “Hope you can keep up with me!”


	5. Russian Winter (Zarya/Mei)

It wasn’t often that Zarya couldn’t find a place to do her training. The gym of course was the best spot, since there were plenty of weights to use and usually nobody there to give her much in forms of annoyance. But there were days when it was full up, or days where she simply couldn’t focus–those were the days when she wandered, simply moving around the base to familiarize herself with it’s layout.

She wondered if it was an American design or not, because it certainly didn’t make all that much sense to her. The climate was also strange to get used to–too hot for her, like the heat pressed up too close to her skin and made everything uncomfortable if she wore even one layer too much.

Sometimes it was the heat alone that made her wander, searching for a spot to feel somewhat comfortable; and there was one room she had grown fond of visiting in times like that.

Mei’s lab.

After having settled all of her research and equipment down at the Gibraltar base, she had gone right back into her own projects and curiosities. She was an interesting woman, and though they didn’t share many cultural commonalities that were strong enough to bond over, they did at least seem to have a fairly friendly sense of camaraderie.

The labratory was really chilly in comparison to the rest of the base, and it was one of the first reasons that Zarya found it nice to hang out. Mei wasn’t bad company in the slightest–her bubbly, upbeat personality was what won the Russian ex-weightlifter something fierce. She was…well, she was different, at least in the sense that for some reason, Zarya couldn’t seem to find a reason against seeing her so often, enjoying her company and the sweet sound of her excited voice.

They started friendly enough, carefully trodding around basic topics, unsure what the other enjoyed, hated, or otherwise wanted to avoid. Everyone in Overwatch had a story, and everyone certainly had their demons–it was an unspoken rule to figure out what they were and then steer completely clear of it. It was respectful, but it did cause a level of awkwardness in conversation when neither party knew what to talk about.

But one day, Zarya asked Mei about her research, and suddenly all that sense of unsure awkwardness melted away.

There weren’t all that many people who were as passionate as she was, so few people who had such heard in what they believed in and the skill to see they made a difference in it. Though Zarya didn’t know all that much of the specifics when it came to climatology, there was nothing more soothing than to hear the researcher talk about her work.

Sometimes she wouldn’t even speak in English, but rather Chinese. It was a soft, gentle sound that Zarya enjoyed even if she didn’t understand it. Too many times had she found herself lulled to a comfort that she rarely felt, having grown up in a hardened, post-war village.

Zarya didn’t realize that she was falling for Mei until the young Chinese researcher started using her first name.

‘Aleksandra, could you hold this for me?’

‘I’d love to see you lifting or training sometime, Aleksandra.’

‘It makes me happy to talk to you, Aleksandra, you’re always welcome in the lab.’

Where it once made her feel a little shy, Zarya soon came to see Mei as someone deeply apart of her life, someone she trusted and cared about. They began to share stories with one another–what it was like growing up in Russia in a post-war village, or in China, working to be a prestigious scientist even at the behest of her abilities due to her gender.

It wasn’t long before people started to ask Zarya about it. They weren’t ever rude, but it took a while before the woman realized that they were asking if she and Mei were together, romantically. It wasn’t until then that she considered it, honestly, having simply seen Mei as a deep, important person she’d grown rather fond of, enjoying her time as much as her voice, her smile, her laugh.

Mei had been apart of her life in Overwatch as Zarya had been in hers.

She didn’t have an answer for the questions at first, simply because she didn’t know–and she didn’t know how Mei herself felt about it either.

The day it changed was unlike any other. They spent time in the lab together, exchanging stories and jokes, puns that nobody else seemed to enjoy. It wasn’t until Mei touched Zarya’s hand that she realized they were standing so close, the shorter woman’s attention long lost on her research, in favor of meeting the gaze of the woman beside her.

“….Your lips look a little cold,” Zarya had whispered, almost too light to hear herself.

Mei matched her gaze for a moment before smiling that soft, precious smile that lit up Zarya’s heart.

“Maybe you should warm them up,” she had said, in a tone too playful, too sweet, for anyone to deny.

Zarya has an answer for anyone who wants to ask again; she’s undeniably, completely in love with her passionate little researcher.


	6. My Favorite Place (Genji/Reinhardt) (PG-13)

“You’re cheating,” Genji murmurs, just a hair low enough that it could be considered under his breath. Regardless, the quip is heard, and heartily laughed at in amusement by the man standing next to him. The sound is deep and warm, and that alone makes up for the feelings of shyness that it always incites within the cyborg’s chest. He’s a grown man, but there’s something about the way that Reinhardt chuckles that leaves him feeling as flustered as a schoolgirl half his age.

“How might I be cheating, little Genji?” The lion of a man presses a hand against Genji’s back, pressing them close together. “I don’t think I’ve done anything of the sort today.” Though the younger man is already pressed up on his toes, he’s still too far away from his lover’s face, too far from a kiss he’s been teased and toyed with to get for the last ten minutes.

Genji’s lack of success doesn’t deter him any. He starts pushing himself up higher, just a little more even though the motion is probably in vain.

“You’re too tall,” he gripes, letting out a short curse in Japanese before finally falling back down to the flat of his feet. “I don’t find the amusement in teasing me for a kiss when I can’t even reach you.”

Reinhardt laughs yet again, and Genji’s chest feels light and fuzzy with warmth. Even when the smaller of the two takes a step away, the German still looks a tinge bemused with his annoyance.

“Or perhaps you’re just too small, mein sperling?” Reinhardt reaches a hand out, gentle rather than condescending, and carefully presses a thumb across Genji’s scar-ridden cheek. 

The mask is hooked on his belt, easily within reach to put back on before making a hasty retreat should Reinhardt continue to tease him--the last tool in his arsenal is rather petty, but sometimes pouting and ignoring the large, old soldier does plenty well with his need to comfort. 

On more than one occasion had Genji shamelessly pouted with a wibbling lower lip, or turned a rather bratty, cold-shoulder to his lover to get the attention he wanted. 

Genji responds to Reinhardt with little more than a huff. There’s a thin, nontoxic glare in his soft eyes when he looks towards the taller German man. But before either he or Reinhardt could get out another quip, the cyborg drops his crossed arms and practically lunges himself at his lover. 

The motion wasn’t crude, he knew exactly how to twist himself so he could get the literal upper hand. He used the momentum of his jump to wrap his legs around Reinhardt’s girthy waist, and his arms around the other’s shoulders and neck. 

Genji clung to Reinhardt like a koala for a few moments, sharing a deadpanned expression with that of surprise, before finally pressing his face forward to steal the kiss he had been trying to get.

The taller of the two gave in without further teasing, simply wrapping his large, warm arms around the cyborg and helping him keep close, their bodies pressing together as they kissed slowly, softly.

When they finally drew away from one another, Genji still didn’t relinquish his hold. 

“I rather like it here,” Genji nearly chirps, enclosed so perfectly by Reinhardt’s almost too-gentle hug. “This is now my favorite place to be.”

The warmth that flutters in the smaller man’s belly is quickly replaced by shy embarassment when Reinhardt’s chuckle shifts to words.

“And here I thought your favorite place was beneath me,” He growled, hands gently rubbing up and down his small lover’s back. 

Genji let out a soft, thin whine.

He couldn’t really argue that one.


	7. Offerings (Shuichi (OC)/Dragon!Hanzo)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Shuichi](http://myth-and-mischief.tumblr.com/post/148315159146/overwatch-oc-shuichi-shimada-shuichi-shu) is ultra cute original character created by [Myth-and-Mischief on tumblr.](http://myth-and-mischief.tumblr.com/)

The day is as quiet as any other. There’s a slight breeze in the air, but it’s neither enough to cause a chill nor to disturb any of the chimes hung around the temple perimeters. Regardless, it’s a rather nice feeling, the soft brush against a cheek, the swirl of dark hair over unconcerned eyes as gentle footsteps take their owner through he quiet hallways to the shrine they were tasked to look after.

It is there that it sits, the hand-painted canvas of prayers. There’s little need to read them, since they’ve already been memorized years prior. Below that however, there is a small, rather humble shrine. It doesn’t look like very much, which in itself is ironic, and said irony is never lost on the main caretaker, who would much prefer for something just a tad more elaborate, so it’s more fitting for the spirit of the temple.

Regardless of his inner, mostly distracted thoughts of the matter, Shuichi isn’t one to complain. He gently falls to his knees in front of the shrine, and peers up to the written prayers with little more than a reminiscent smile on his lips. Oh, he can remember having so many troubles pronouncing the words on the canvas, rolling them over his lips and tongue until he was sure he had gotten them right--and sometimes, that would have take several hours. 

Ah, childhood is the most sweet when looked back on, enjoyed with the maturity and the hindsight of adult understanding over the world. Though, it does carry the weight of cold nostalgia, of things that could never be again. Ignorance of evils, sweetness of ambitions, so many sacrifices to make in the name of growing up.

Shuichi is too lost in his thoughts to notice the sound in the temple room, a soft, low echo of a growl that closes in on him.

It isn’t until he feels a pressure on his back that he breaks free from such useless thoughts, turning his head around to meet the hard, honey-sweet gaze of a dragon’s massive face. It stares back at the caretaker with a look that, for any lesser soul, might cause them to faint. It’s a hard, curious look that can be easily be misconstrued as anger; it was a feature that the dragon held even in human form.

Shuichi felt the curiosity from the dragon in his mind, gently probing against his thoughts like a curious child, wondering what had been distracting him so.

“It’s nothing,” He says with a gentle smile. “Just thinking of the first time I offered a prayer for you.” A hand reaches forward, gently pressing to the dragon’s massive maw, stroking up his snout and finally resting between his eyes. The creature lets out a short, satisfied huff, and then carefully twisted around the floor so he could lay surrounding Shuichi as he knelt.

“You butchered over half of it the first time you tried,” The dragon whispers in the young man’s mind, the words a soft caress of sensation against his raw thoughts. “If I wasn’t so amused by the attempt, I don’t know if I would have let you even catch a glimpse of me.”

“And yet you did, Hanzo,” The caretaker teases. He can feel the dragon’s eyes on him, gentle and yet firm in that lovable half-glare. “Though I recall it was far more than amusement that made you bare yourself to me a few years afterwards.” 

“Do not start that with me, Shuichi.”

The words carry no poison, leaving the young man to giggle as he feels his inhuman lover nuzzle against his chest, face so large in comparison that’s its enough to push Shuichi back against where Hanzo’s body is curled up behind him. Instead of the purpose of muffling the human’s attempt to tease, the tone of the dragon’s voice only draws more curiosity out.

“Why shouldn’t I~?” It’s a soft, demure tone of voice, one that Shuichi knows plenty well that his powerful lover adores to no end. To make it even worse, he brings a loose fist up to bite gently at a knuckle, gazing up at Hanzo until the dragon lets out another, even harder, huff of air. The caretaker laughs. “Am I bothering you so, otto?”

Surprisingly enough, the response that Shuichi get’s isn’t a curt brush-off, or even straight-up silence. Instead, he feels the dragon’s body shrink behind him, and watches in apt interest as Hanzo shifts before him. It’s a fast process, but one almost never done in front of him--it’s almost odd how curious Shuichi is for how Hanzo can make the change seem so graceful despite becoming something so unlike his normal form.

He keeps a lot of features, even as a human. Patches of dark, glittering blue scales, soft horns jutting out from his forehead, the thinner, but powerful tail behind him. He still has claws, fangs, and a rather voracious appetite that Shuichi can never sate even when all of the cooks are on duty--but it’s still Hanzo.

He can see it in those dark, honey-sweet eyes.

Admittedly, the small temple caretaker is a little surprised when Hanzo approaches him so fast, drops right in front of him to wrap his powerful arms around his lover’s body and press the two of them together. A tail wraps around Shuichi’s waist, possessively so.

“H-Hanzo?” The young caretaker asks, no lack of interest and heat starting to bubble up from the sudden feel of desperation in the other’s movements. He almost knows what his lover’s about to say, but there would be no devilish fire on Earth or otherwise that would keep Shuichi from admitting how much he loved hearing it in that deep, inhuman growl.

“My rut nears me,” The dragon growled into the other’s ear. Fingertips, ended by claws, press just enough to feel through the silken cloth over the young man’s arms, “And it’s been too long since I’ve shown any amorous attention to my beautiful mate. I will have you until I am rid of this heat coiling in my belly.”

A moan spills from the young lover’s lips as he feels Hanzo’s cock rubbing, grinding against his own through too-thin cloth. 

As if it’s still a time to tease, the young man whispers, “But--But Hanzo, I still haven’t given a proper offering to you yet.”

Hanzo’s initial response was a growl, a hard buck of his hips that sent Shuichi’s mind into a feverish, beautiful little haze. He hardly noticed (nor cared) when his inhuman lover twisted his body around so that the pressure of his engorged cock was instead grinding against his ass, a beautiful promise of all the pleasure Hanzo was more than capable of offering.

“You’ll give me your offering soon enough,” The dragon whispered into his ear. “It will be the spill of your seed in front of my shrine when I bring you to pleasure as many times as I desire.”


	8. Birds of a Feather (Soldier 76/Reaper) (Icarian AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is [**inspired by an original race**](http://sepzet.tumblr.com/post/149659444962/species-icarian-origin-country-daedalon) created by [sepzet](https://tmblr.co/myl376187Sb4YZy84umsAfg) on tumblr, called [**Icarians**](http://sepzet.tumblr.com/post/149659444962/species-icarian-origin-country-daedalon). Basically they’re humanoids with avian features, such as wings, and share a cultural, magical  and physical affinity with song and dance. 
> 
> Gabriel and Jack are both old, somewhat grumpy, full-blooded Icarians. Jack has soft grey, almost off-white wings while Gabriel has huge, dark, raven-like wings with gray patches throughout.

“You’re getting slow in your old age.” The gruff, low voice was muffled against a pillow, it’s owner too tired and too lazy to bother turning his head to the side--the man behind him could understand what he said plenty well regardless. 

“A new record, Gabe,” The lover said, a low chortle in his voice as he gently held the other’s hips and pulled his softening cock from his beautiful, well-fucked ass. “You managed to wait five whole seconds after sex before complaining.”

Though as wonderful as the sight was to see his seed dripping down Gabriel’s inner thighs, Jack knew he wouldn’t be able to get hard for another round for a while. He admired the view for a few moments, then watched in amusement as Gabe simply let his body fall onto the soft, half-made bed, laying limp and naked and absolutely beautiful. 

Jack never did tell him often enough how much he loved his friend. True, they said it a lot in their youth, though it was mostly in low whispers and behind closed doors. 

But if there’s ever a time that the ex-strike commander wants to tell Gabriel Reyes how much he adores him, this has to be one of the best examples of it. The sun’s setting, and it’s angled just perfectly so that the light shining into the room highlights all of the beautiful curves of Gabriel’s body. Even the scars, the patches of slowly shifting pale color, look beautiful over his bronze skin.

But his wings, oh, how his wings are beautiful. 

They’re rather large, even for someone full-blooded in their ancient race, spanning at least twice as wide as his arms can stretch at their fullest length. Just like the rest of him, they’re a dark, dusty grey, with light patches marking parts of the wing, even splotching over parts of feathers.

“When was the last time I took care of your wings?” Jack asks gently, reaching a hand out and carefully stroking the upper arch of one. Gabriel lets out a soft little groan at the touch, still so sensitive after his orgasm--his wings, moreso than others of their race, were so extremely sensitive after sex. “They’re starting to look like they need a little grooming.”

“I ain’t gonna stop you if you do, Morrison,” Gabriel murmured.

Jack smiled softly at the sight. It was really the only time that his friend ever dropped his guard, let anyone see the vulnerability that he normally kept so tightly locked away. It’s what you’re taught as a soldier. As veteran.

Gabe didn’t do more than let out a thin, soft noise as Jack encouraged him to sit up, facing away from his lover and gently stretching his wings out so he could reach all the folds that normally were kept close to his body.

Without much warning, Jack started to carefully pull his fingertips through the thick, dark feathers, combing through in a first pass of obvious gingerness. Most of the loosest feathers tend to drop from the fluffy mass without much aid, making it easier to go in afterwards in a more firm, thorough pass. 

The room was silent for a few moments as one lover took care of the other, an activity so intimate and instinctual that it was hard to call it anything less than another part of sex. Like the cigarettes, cuddling, sleeping, showering--it was something they did, something Jack knew that Gabe needed. 

Though there was no official words to describe what Gabriel--Reaper--was anymore, it caused him so many issues. One eye was cloudy, he had aching bones, his skin patched with too-sensitive pale spots of vitiligo, and his wings just...kept filling up. Jack didn’t have the problem himself, only ever needing to groom his soft, off-white wings once every couple of weeks. 

Gabriel was an entirely different story, needing someone’s helping hands at least every few days, to pull out the feathers that did nothing but cause him further distress, discomfort or, in the worst cases, pain. When the feather-tips would embed themselves improperly, when they would get overgrown--there were a hundred things that his lover already had to deal with, and Jack didn’t want him to worry about one more than he could help with.

With each gentle pull of digits, more feathers fell onto the bed, over Jack’s lap and on the floor. Though it was a bit of a mess, he couldn’t help but feel a reward in the comforted, soft moan that came from the other’s lips.

“Oh rubio,” came the words with the moan. Jack chuckled, digging his fingertips in just a little bit deeper, his own wings gently fluttering and fluffing out behind him at the sound of his mate and lover’s pleasure.

“I haven’t had blond hair for a long time, Gabe.”

“Hnng,” Gabriel let out a huff, finally fluffing and stretching his wings out to let a small shower of loose feathers fall around the both of them. “Thank god for that. It was literally the color of corn.”

“...And what’s wrong with corn?” Jack asked, and it was honestly hard to tell whether the question was honest or sarcastic. Regardless, the old soldier let out a muffled gasp when he felt one of those massive, dark wings sweep backwards, giving him a face and mouthful of feathers. 

The gesture was playful--Gabriel could have easily knocked him clear off the bed if he wanted too, with so many years of experience and strength put into those massive wings, not even mentioning the level of medical enhancements they had gone through together in their youth.

“Sometimes I wonder how I still love you, Morrison.” 

He heard a laugh behind him, a gentle shuffle of wings, before a pair of careful, kneading fingers started messaging the muscles and skin down Gabriel’s spine. Oh, he let out a beautiful moan at the touch, feeling as the man behind him shuffled closer, pressing his lips to the shell of the other’s ear.

“I love you too, Gabe,” Jack said. “You fluffy old grump.”


	9. Looking Back (McCree + Mercy) (PG-13)

“Angela, yer’ looking as young as ever.”

“And you still could still use a bit more personal grooming.”

“Hurtful, but honest--haven’t changed one bit there doc.”

It’s the first interaction the two have had in a long time, years, in fact. It’s combined with a stare, a look of emotion that can’t quite be described. It’s like that for everyone really, finally coming back to see eachother again after drifting apart in various situations, emotions, and instances. Some of them haven’t seen eachother since the bombing in Zurich, some a bit before that, and some a bit after. Regardless of when each agent finally collected their earnings of a dying group and tried to make it on their own terms, they all carried the same feeling of surreal awkwardness that came with seeing one another again.

Nostalgia was quick to bloom between many of the agents, either between two veterans, or one telling stories to someone new. Feelings of relief, of familiarity, of closeness--the emotions run like water through the team, flowing freely as the days tick by and they grew more and more unified in thought and in the public eye.

It doesn’t take very long for the veterans of the old Overwatch to start exchanging their thoughts--the fighters that came before, when things were confusing and trying to solidify themselves in a world not prepared for a long-term, post-war combat group on par or higher than most national military organizations.

Jesse McCree and Angela Ziegler were two of many, many agents who had more stories than time to tell them. They cross paths in the base several times before they finally find themselves together, alone and exchanging the thoughts they have neither the time or desire to tell anyone else.

* * *

 

Talking about how things used to be isn’t so much a depressing topic for both agents as they initially thought. Sure, McCree’s downed a few beers and Angela is sipping idly at her first (mostly out of politeness; she didn’t enjoy the bitter taste of the brand McCree enjoyed), but the topics of the conversation never seem to stray into dark territory.

“You know, it’s nice to be back,” McCree says, tipping back the bottle and downing the last gulp of his drink. His words aren’t slurring yet, so Angela is only mostly amused whenever she catches a flush on the man’s face, a soft moment of buzz in his words or thoughts that are the only indication of his non-sobriety. “Bein’ in Overwatch again, yanno.”

“It’s good to be back with ze team,” Angela says politely, accent far softer than McCree’s, even without the alcohol. “Working with familiar faces again is nice.”

The man huffs and shifts, dragging his heels so they’re propped up onto the table. He tips his hat back a little bit when it fell over his eyes, eyes that still look as young as the doctor remembers when he first joined.

“Never felt like a team to me,” The man says lowly, as if he’s contemplating something in his thoughts. He doesn’t explain what he means until the woman’s peering over at him, brows pulled in confusion. “I mean--....More like a, uh, yanno, a family.”

Family. Angela’s heard her fellow agents use the term before, even if she doesn’t entirely agree. She respects McCree’s opinion, but opens her lips to question it.

“...I assume it’s because of...” She isn’t sure if it’s a hard topic for him anymore, as much as it was when he was young.

“Deadlock?” McCree finishes it for her without an ounce of poison in his gaze. “I’m not ‘fraid to talk about it anymore. I was so focused on actin’ like a tough little shit that I didn’t realize on what I was missin’. Wasn’t until Reyes  took in a lil’ scruffy kid like me that I learned what it meant to mean somethin’ t’someone.”

Angela, in a sense, can sympathize with the feeling.

“....After my parents passed, I felt ze same way as you,” She rubs the tips of her fingers up the sides of the bottle, staring into the dark glass shape so she doesn’t have to meet McCree’s gaze. “Lost. Without a focus and searching for friends to lean on. I don’t see Overwatch the same way zat you do, but....the hospital I worked at as a new doctor, the staff became my family.”

She can remember so many sleepless nights, so much depending on the nurses, the surgeons, the other doctors---all bound together by a simple, yet selfless code to help others in the middle of such pain and suffering. She can remember gentle, caring hands on her shoulders when she lost her first patient, a little boy no older than ten. There are tears, pain and suffering, but also joy, hope, and relief. Just as strongly as Angela can remember her first death, she can also remember her first life.

“I spent ten hours with a fellow doctor and our two nurses trying to stabilize a woman after she was shot. Right into the abdomen, but just below her lungs.”

The woman makes a motion on her own body for McCree to follow. He waits for her to continue. Angela does just a few moments later, after finally setting the bottle down onto the table.

“She had two kids, both of them had to be teenagers already. It was all we could think about, saving this woman’s life--All **I** could think about. I wouldn’t let another child have to go through what I did, losing a parent. 

We stabilized her. We were all exhausted, but we saved a life--and there were so many more coming in. My nurses didn’t even bat an eye, forced me to sleep while they prepped another for surgery.”

She doesn’t know why she’s telling him this. It’s not as if she’s been drinking any, so there’s no alcohol in her system, loosening up her lips, but it still feels so...freeing to talk about it for once, to communicate deeply with another human being of such visceral emotions they had to endure when they were young.

Angela glances over towards the cowboy as he shifts again, finally taking his feet off the tabletop. Silence shuffles awkwardly in the air between the two of them, so much that the tick of the clock across the room is almost audible.

2 a.m.

“I know we got differin’ views on what family feels like,” McCree drawls after a few moments, breaking the silence with that warm, confident voice of his that infuriated Angel more than she’d care to let on so many years ago. It usually came alongside some stupid injury, something he could have easily avoided--but he was young and stupid and Angela was always happy to see he was still alive at least. “But it’s still good for us all t’be back together. Missed it somethin’ terrible, almost.”

“Some parts of it shouldn’t be missed,” The woman whispers. She doesn’t miss how it used to be. The violence, the anger, the bloodshed. She misses the ideals of the military group, but not the corruption that bloomed from the blood-stained soil. “Some things are better off gone.”

The silence settles again, though this time at least it isn’t as bad as before. They know that they come from different walks of life, living different perspectives and wanting different things at the end of the tunnel. But despite their differences, they share a lot of the same experiences. 

Pain, loss, love, happiness--they’re the things that can put Angela and McCree, two of the most different agents, sitting down at a table in the mess hall at the wee hours of the morning, shooting off topics and memories as if they’ve known eachother since childhood. 

They talk to eachother for another hour or two, they lose track quickly enough--but it’s long enough that the sun’s rising outside by the time both of them call it quits, McCree visibly more drunk and Angela a little lighter in the heart. 

“Do ya think you’re better off?” McCree asks, just as she’s stepping out of the mess hall. His voice makes her pause, not even turning her head until the last of his question is out of his mouth. “...as a person. Goin’ through what you have. Do you regret bein’ in Overwatch?”

Angela doesn’t answer for a moment. She can feel Jesse’s eyes on her back, more curious than firm, since it was a question the two of them have been dancing around the entire night.

“...I don’t regret none of it,” He finally answers himself, as if hoping the honesty will make Angela feel a little more comfortable. It’s probably the beer fueling most of it, since McCree is never a man to open up so much without something to help him relax--and nobody can blame him. “Think it saved me. I might be a bit of a’fool right now, but I don’t wanna know where I’d be if I was still with Deadlock.”

Angela respects that, despite having her own occasional issues with a man so crude, so deeply tied to the organization that caused the most of her grief. He’s an honest man, and has grown a lot more mature than the last time they saw eachother.

“Though I regret some of what I’ve had to do,” the woman whispers, lightly turning her face to look at the man behind her, leaning against a wall to keep from triping over his own feet. His eyes found hers after a moment and then she could feel it--a sense of openness. Closeness. A trust, all from someone who had seen some of the same things she had. “....I don’t regret joining. I’ve saved many lives because of Overwatch.” She pauses and slowly offers a smile in McCree’s direction. “....and I’ve met many wonderful people. Good friends. I don’t intend to lose zem again.”

The two exchange half-drunken pleasantries after a moment, though it’s Jesse’s voice that comes out more slurred, and retire to their quarters, both knowing a little bit more about the other.

Sometimes it’s nice to look back and see how much you’ve grown, but its even nicer to see how much you’ve gained.


	10. Feeling Better? (Mercy/Soldier 76)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commission for asuka-in-tokyo3 on tumblr!

He doesn’t know why he feels so jealous. Jack is sure that if he entertains the thought a little deeper than a nagging at the back of his head, maybe he’d actually realize how stupid it is to feel that way. She’s the team doctor after all, it’s her job to heal, to care, to...touch.

Still, he can’t help the flicker of possessive anger that fills his chest when he steps into the medical wing. It’s almost enough to make him forget the wrenching pain in his shoulder, the only injury that McCree managed during their sparring earlier that day. In comparison to what else he’s felt in his life, the pain is merely an annoyance, a pulled muscle that would heal in days if not less.

It’s not even a pinprick of sensation in his mind though when he steps inside Angela’s office and sees that she’s already tending to someone in the chair beside her desk. Jack isn’t sure if he should be surprised or not that it’s McCree sitting in that chair, the source of his injury in the first place.

Neither of them seem to notice Jack’s entrance at first, caught in the middle of a one-sided conversation that mostly contained the doctor’s constant worrying. She has one hand to his cheek, and another holding a small, palm-sized machine that she scans briefly over his shoulders and down his arms.

“You need to take better care of yourself,” The woman fussed, looking over McCree’s face and noting the small, little scratches. Two under his eyes and one across his forehead, all marked on the machine in her opposite hand. “But at least you didn’t break any bones.”

“You woulda’ been able to fix me jus’ fine even if I did,” McCree drawls in a tone that, in hindsight at least, is very casual. “We were jus’ sparring though, doctor. Had worse tussles with Gabriel.”

Jack can’t help but feel the bristle of his attention and nerves, honed in on the way he flicks his eyes over Angela’s face, how he pulls a corner of his mouth just a hair too wide. Jack is jealous, he knows it, but damn if he can stop it. He takes another step into the room, loudly clearing his throat so the two of them know that he’s there. Both pairs of eyes turn to look at him.

“Didn’t think I did enough to send ya’ here, Morrison,” McCree chuckled, the sound of his voice grating against the old soldier’s mind a little too much to be mere short-tempered annoyance.

“Wrenched my shoulder something good,” Jack grumbled, gritting his teeth as he saw Angela flash McCree another gentle smile before ushering him out of the chair. It was good sometimes that Jack still wore the mask--it made it easier to seem impassive sometimes. “I can uh, come back if you need to look him over more.”

Fuck. That didn’t come out right. Jack wants to hit his head against the door, but Angela answers kindly before he can do anything.

“Oh no, he’s good. Just needed to make sure nothing was broken,” Angela finally smiles at Jack, just a warm, pleasant little pull of her lips in his direction that seems to sooth the aching possessiveness in the center of his chest. “You have a mission coming up, Jesse, please don’t do anything stupid.”

McCree stepped past Jack and practically saunters his way out of the office.

“Stupid is my middle name, doc.”

Jack rolls his eyes and refuses to make a comment, mostly because Angela’s already letting out a groan, reserved to knowing that she would undeniably be seeing the cowboy in her office within the next couple days--it was how things always were.

“The day I don’t see him with some injury is the day we truly have world peace,” the woman murmurs, then gently gestures for Jack to take the seat beside her.

“You see him that often?” Jack asks, half curious. Angela merely shrugs after a moment and lays a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder, just enough to feel the way he twitches in instinctual, but light pain.

“More often than I should,” She eventually murmurs, attending to Jack when he finally sat down. “You should take a page from his book though--I don’t see you hardly enough.”

The huff that Jack offers seems to be answer enough, and Angela gently presses a hand to his shoulder again. Even with the mask on, Jack can’t hide the full-body wince as a sharp, bright pain singes down one side of his back.

“Tell me how it feels,” Angela says in a voice too soft, her hands suddenly too gentle as she tries to coax the soldier to remove his jacket. “What kind of pain? I don’t think Jesse broke anything if you’re not howling in pain--”

Angela stopped herself after a moment, her lips pursing.

“--Well, knowing you, I’m probably wrong.” There’s a hint of amusement in her voice that Jack can’t miss. It’s a gentle hint of playfulness that never fails to make his heart flip, just a little bit. But that flip turns to searing jealousy as she continues again. “Anyone else would be complaining without end--you’d think they’re dying.”

“But I’m not anyone else,” Jack tests the waters in a low, calm voice. He doesn’t know if Angela has or will catch onto the deep-seated, bubbling green feelings of envy. “At least, I hope I’m a little more special to you, Angela.”

He doesn’t fight it as she slips his jacket off, leaving Jack in a thin, skin-tight black tank top that contrasts with his bright, pale skin. The only hints of color are patches of tanning long-since faded with time, scars down his arms and over his shoulders that mark various tales of battle. Some of them Angela knows, and some she’s personally helped to heal him from.

The doctor doesn’t answer Jack’s pointed almost-question while she leans down to inspect his shoulder with closer, intimate acuity. She’s touching him with her bare hands now, Jack notices, a lack of machine in her hand than when she looked over McCree.

She presses gentle fingers over the muscle of his shoulder, until she finds the tender spots and points that hurt too much. She notes them down on her data-pad, and then turns to look Jack directly in the face, leaning down just enough so that they’re almost at eye-level with one another.

“Diagnosis?” The old man huffs.

“Pulled your shoulder muscles a bit too hard, but nothing’s broken or sprained,” Angela whispers.

Their faces are close--Jack is wearing the mask still, but he wonders if she can still feel the way his lips part and his face unconsciously brightens. She’s as beautiful as the day they met, as wonderful as the first time they kissed, the anchor that continues to keep him sane.

“...I love you.”

The whisper is so soft, so breathy, it’s a wonder that it’s even comprehensible. But they both hear it, both realize that it’s left one of their mouths but it’s hard to tell who, if not both, said it first. It makes Angela smile regardless, her soft lips pulling into a crescent-shaped smile that makes Jack’s heart surge with both happiness and envy. He’s happy to enjoy the look of peace on her face, but envious that nobody else understands how honest it is, how much tragedy and heartache this woman has seen in her life.

Morrison isn’t sure what comes over him in that moment, whether it’s lust, jealousy, or the simple and raw need to have her closer. Regardless of the facts he reaches out with his uninjured arm and pulls her towards him, until she’s sitting in his lap and his masked face is buried in her neck.

Maybe if he just closes his eyes and concentrates, he can smell her soft, sweet scent through the filters of the mask. The perfume she always wears, without fail, that he wonders is simply part of her body at this point.

“I love you,” Jack repeats with a stronger sense of possession in his voice. “Nobody is allowed to say that but me.”

Angela giggles as the mask tickles more than anything else, rubbing over the sensitive spots of flesh on her neck that only Jack’s discovered. The spots that make her writhe beneath him in bed.

“Nobody else does, liebe,” she says. “Just you.” Gentle fingers finally find the sides of Jack’s mask, revealing his face with a hiss as it drops, forgotten, on the ground next to the two of them. Her hands are at the man’s cheeks the moment she can touch them, tracing over every scar that marks the face she fell in love with years ago.

The Strike-Commander who smiled at her every day, who was there for her when she broke down, who gave her words to live for. When Angela thought there was nowhere left to go in her research, he gave her a reason to keep going. They might have fought frequently on a military, professional level, but they always came to respect the thoughts of each other, the fact that they wanted the same thing but had starkly different methods.

The fact that they are still so deeply in love is a miracle. The fact that they aren’t dead is a miracle.

The fact that Jack could actually get his pants open with one hand--the one on the side of his injured shoulder--is by far the biggest miracle.

“J-Jack!” Angela gasps, feeling the heat of Jack’s cock through the thin material of her pants. “You can’t just--”

“I can,” The man growled, drinking down whatever complaints she had with a hungry kiss. “And I will.” He laughed after a moment, feeling how she suddenly clung to him, her face going red at the realization that the door to her office wasn’t locked.

She looks just about ready to outright climb off Jack’s lap (and he would certainly let her if she honestly wanted that), but the words he almost snarls into her ear is plenty enough to keep her still.

“I thought you said you were a good girl?” The man’s hands, both of them, eagerly start groping whatever of her hips and ass that he can, keeping her hips grinding against him. “Last time, I remember you telling daddy how you were gonna be a real good girl next time.”

“Y-Yes…” Angela whispers, her hands in a vice-grip over Jack’s shoulders, her face buried in the warm space between his jaw and shoulder. She can’t help but squirm as his grip gets tighter, practically grinding his hips up against that sweet juncture between her thighs.

They’ve never done anything like this outside of the bedroom, so Jack’s sudden control over the situation has her thoughts in a frenzy, unsure what in the world even brought it on. But Jack, ever the blunt man he is, doesn’t waste time in dispelling the confusion surging through his lover’s thoughts.

“See you with your patients all the time,” He growls, groaning as the fabric of her legging-like pants drag perfectly down the length of his cock. “Sometimes I wonder if you like to get handsy with them on purpose.”

Angela looks like she’s about ready to say something, probably dispel the accusation, but another sharp thrust of Jack’s hips off the chair makes her swallow it back down. The head of his dick presses just over her clit, already throbbing with the deep, powerful sound of his voice.

“Don’t try to lie about it,” Angela hears the voice next to her ear moments before the pain of a solid, flat palm lands on her ass. All she can do is squeak in response when another comes down, and then another. It’s not at all enough to really hurt or leave marks through her clothes, but it’s certainly enough to make her legs shake.

Heat laces in her belly. Between the huskiness of Jack’s voice and the promise of his thick, hard cock beneath her, Angela figures that at least one quickie in her office is allowed (it’s HER office, after all).

The moment that her hands move from Jack’s shoulders and move down between them, Jack snarls again, snatching up her hands with a speed almost inhuman, and pulls them back up to his shoulders.

“You’ve been a bad girl again,” Jack’s eyes are as piercing as his voice. “Gettin’ touchy with everyone when they come in--you want to get needy with anyone, you get needy with me, baby girl. Bad girls don’t get fucked.”

And he means it. All Angela can do to stave off the heat between her thighs is to grind, needily, trying to rub Jack’s dick just right against her cunt through her clothes. It’s infuriating and hot all at the same time, honestly, and she can’t help but love the way that Jack’s voice oozes with need and possessive lust.

“Vati,” She whimpers after a moment, finally giving into the depravity of the situation. “Vati, bitte…”

Jack has heard the German words plenty of times to know what they mean, but it doesn’t stop the sound of her soft pleading from going straight to his cock. He grins with a look of predatory lust before thrusting his hips up again. Angela gasps even louder this time, her face lit up with a cherry-red blush that looks all too pretty with the soft golden glow of her hair.

“You wanna cum?” Jack asks, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, the ache that seems to throb deep in his bones with every shift of his body. “Gonna cum just grinding against daddy’s cock like some little whore? Are you daddy’s good or bad girl?”

It wasn’t a real question--Angela knows there isn’t a real answer to it, but the heat in her belly yanks one out of her lips anyway.

“B-bad girl! Daddy’s bad girl--please, vati, vati bitte, bi-t-tte.”

Jack soaks in the sweet sound of Angela’s begging for a few moments longer than he needs to, just because the gentle throb of his cock to each little plea is too sweet.

Like a man possessed, the old Strike-Commander surges his hips forward and grabs needily at the woman’s ass, forcing her hips to his in a motion of sudden, primal need to fuck.

“Let your daddy watch you cum,” He commands.

Not a moment later, the woman is a writhing mess in his lap. He can feel how her body tenses up and rolls with the waves of pleasure, and can even feel the way her cunt throbs, clenching around absolutely nothing that he would love to stuff her with any other time of day.

It’s a beautiful sight.

Only after he got a moment to catch her orgasm did Jack himself orgasm, feeling the spill of hot seed smearing over the insides of Angela’s thighs. She clutched needily to him as much as he did to her, their bodies pressed as tightly together as their arms were around one another. For just a few moments, the two of them felt nothing more than white-hot bliss, a loss of worry, anxiety, and problems.

But then came the afterglow. The two of them are panting as they part, Mercy staring down at herself and Jack’s spent, softening cock, smeared as much as her thighs are with his seed.

“....Well,” She says, glancing up at Jack with an expression of half-amused curiosity. “That’s certainly one method of therapy I don’t give anyone else.”

Jack takes a moment before he starts chuckling. It’s a low, deep noise from his chest; a sound that Angela has long-since associated with comfort.

He takes a moment to tilt his head one side, then the other, stretching out the muscles in his neck before he starts stretching his arms out.

“Can’t say it doesn’t work,” Those baby-blues glance up playfully at the doctor, his lover. “My shoulder feels a shit ton better after that.”


End file.
